Help From The Baron by John Creasey Page B

be sure of the same luck.’ “
    Chittering paused, then struck a match; the sound and the flame added a stab of menace to the words.
    “Where did you have this heart-to-heart talk?” Mannering asked.
    “In his hotel room - he’s at Bowing’s. He’s been there for two days, hasn’t stayed at the place before, and is booked until the end of the week.”
    “Thanks. He put himself in your hands pretty meekly, didn’t he?”
    “We mentioned that,” murmured Chittering. “He said that hearsay isn’t evidence, that he’d deny everything, that he’d found out I was a good friend of yours and wouldn’t want you hurt. He took a chance, knowingly. If you ask me, he’ll cut and run at the first sign of police trouble. That’s beside the point,” Chittering went on. “What will you do?”
    Mannering’s lips began their upward curve.
    “Hadn’t I better pay him a visit?”
    “John,” advised Chittering, with great deliberation, “be careful with Mr. Ephraim Scoby. He is dangerous, like a snake. Whether you have these Fioras or whether you haven’t, I think he really believes you have.”
    “I’ll be very careful,” promised Mannering, “but someone has to disillusion him.” He glanced at his watch. “I must go, Lorna will have my neck if I’m not home by six. We’re due at - ”
    The telephone bell rang. Mannering hesitated and scowled at it, and then lifted it. Chittering didn’t get up.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s Trevor again, sir, sorry to interrupt you,” said Trevor, who always lacked confidence on the telephone, “but there is a young - ah - lady here, who says that she must see you. She says . . .”
    “Tell her I’m sorry,” Mannering said, “and that I’ll gladly see her in the morning. I must go home now, I’ve an urgent appointment.” He rang off before Trevor could speak again, and got up. “If it’s important to her, she’ll stay and we’ll see her as we go out. Talked to the Yard lately, Chitty?”
    “No. Should I?”
    “They picked up Abe Prinny at his shop at lunch-time, and he was still at the Yard at four o’clock. I don’t want to ask any favours of Bill Bristow, but I’d like to know if they’re holding Abe, and why.”
    “Oke. Where shall I ring you?”
    “At the flat or at Plender’s.”
    “I shall probably call in person at Plender’s,” Chittering said, “he has a cellar which makes yours look like a leaky barrel.”
    He opened the office door.
    Mannering took his hat off a peg, and went out. Trevor was hovering near.
    “Sorry it’s late, Trevor, but I must rush. Mr. Larraby isn’t back yet, is he?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, lock up, set the alarms, and then get off. Oh - telephone my wife and tell her I’m on the way, will you?”
    “At once, sir,” promised Trevor. Far from being oppressed by staying later than usual, he was obviously glad to be entrusted with the task of locking up half a million pounds or so. He was conscientious to a degree, too. He Followed Mannering and Chittering to the door, and Mannering asked: “What did the girl say?”
    “She didn’t say anything, just turned and went out,” said Trevor. “I can’t imagine it was anything very important.”
    “That’s fine,” said Mannering.
    The worst of London’s rush hour was over. Only a few cars were left in the bombed-site car park. Chittering, having refused a lift, had walked towards New Bond Street. Mannering opened the door of his car, and had a shock. It was a real shock, for he had actually turned the key in the lock - yet a man was sitting in the seat next to the driver’s. The light in the car was poor, but the man looked young and slim. Certainly he was ragged-looking, he needed a hair-cut, and he seemed young.
    He was nursing a shiny, black-leather cosh.
    It was made of pliable leather filled with lead-shot, guaranteed to kill if brought down heavily on the right spot; and capable of knocking out a man with the hardest skull, yet showing little in the way of a